Shattered Faith
by Fate8
Summary: This ain't no Silver Age story. Rated for all the right reasons. Reviews always appreicated.


Darkness covered Gotham City like a black shroud. The pallid moon, a dim shape in the night sky, cast little light on the dark, grimy streets. It was a time for creatures of the night, those restless things that only come once the last rays of sunlight bleed away over the horizon. One nocturnal shadow made a silent descent from a tall building, gliding down onto the cracked and pitted street below. The figure rose to its full height, then melted back into the welcoming embrace of the dark.

Bo Popper was a bad man. He had been born into the part of Gotham City called The Cauldron, where dreams were crushed under the weight of poverty and an utter lack of hope. Popper grew up in what could charitably be called a slum. He endured a nightmare childhood. His father had been a drunkard, and when he staggered home from yet another booze binge, he would beat Bo senseless. The boy never knew why this happened, but it did on an increasingly regular basis as the years crawled by. His mother turned to prostitution to raise money. Bo was able to hide most of the time when the johns came to the door, but more than once he was made to watch while strange men used his mother to slake their lust. When one asked how much a round with the brat would cost, her considered answer of eighty dollars flushed what little was left of Bo's shattered soul into the abyss. He left home for good at fifteen after smashing his drunken father's ribs with a Louisville Slugger. Popper grew up fast on the streets into a six-foot four slab of mean muscle. He preyed upon the weak, drawing to him a small cadre of like-minded individuals. They called themselves Gotham's Forsaken. Popper and his gang carved out a small niche of power in one of the city's neighborhoods. They were deemed so brutal and territorial, not even the Russian mobs or the Jamaican lords attempted to establish a foothold on Forsaken turf.

This day, Popper was mulling over a problem. A new family by the name of Stimple had moved into the area, and taken over the Goodland Dry Cleaners. When the place reopened, Popper sent a couple of The Forsaken to explain how things were done and to set up a schedule for "protection" payments. To his astonishment, the new owners, from some shithole in Kansas or somewhere, had refused to pay. That affront could not be allowed to stand. The newcomers would have to be broken.

"Maybe we just cut off a finger or two, like with that Chinaman," said Ruiz Arroyo. Ruiz, with his full sleeve of tattoos, had done the cutting on that job.

"Been there, done that," said Popper. "What we need is something that will shock these shitkickers, and snuff out their will to resist."

Johnny Drake, an ex-con who had done time for arson and assault, took a long drag off a cigarette. "They got a kid," he said.

"Yeah," asked Popper.

"Daughter. About fifteen. Seen her in the store a couple of times," said Drake.

"Really," said Popper as he stared out a window onto the street below. "Can we grab her?"

"Don't see why not. Just have to watch her patterns and find the right moment."

"Do it," said Popper

A week later, Popper had just given a pass to the latest batch of crystal meth his boys had brewed up, and was buzzing slightly when his cell phone rang. "Popper," he answered.

"We got the Stimple bitch," came the voice of Marko Barducci. "Snatched her from the fucking mall. Be there in around ten minutes."

"Cool," said Popper, then broke the connection. He stood and crossed over to another room to make the final preparations for the girl's arrival.

Soon, Arroyo, Drake and Barducci barged through the front door, thrusting the girl before them. Her hands were tied, and her face was puffy and wet from crying. Stark terror radiated from every pore. She had bright blond hair, green eyes and the slim frame of the socially conscious American teenager. Popper took her in with a glance, and a wolfish smile skinned across his teeth. He walked over and took her head in his hands. "What is your name, darling," he asked softly.

"Ashley." Her voice trembled like the fragile wings of a butterfly.

"Do you know why you're here, Ashley?"

"N-n-no. Don;t hurt me."

"Your parents are very stupid. They refused to pay us a small tax for the privilege of opening their shitty little store in our hood. And now you have to pay for their mistake." His grip tightened around her face. "Welcome to the real world," he said. Popper grabbed her bound wrists and began to drag Ashley toward a door across the room. She tried to resist, but he was far too strong.

"What are you going to do with me," she asked in a choked tone.

"Whatever we want," replied Popper as he opened the door and pushed Ashley inside the room beyond. He followed her, and began to close the door. An idea suddenly lit up his face, and he called out, "Yo, throw me that digital camera." Drake reached up to a shelf above his head and retrieved the wanted item. He tossed it to Popper, who deftly caught the camera and then slammed the door.

The other members of The Forsaken in the apartment lit cigarettes, opened a bottle of Jack Daniels black label, and listened to the sounds coming through the paper thin walls. They heard a squeal, a thump, Popper's muffled voice, the sound of flesh on flesh, a scream, a bark of laughter , sobbing, and finally, creaking bedsprings.

Popper emerged some time later, shirtless and smiling. Arroyo tossed him a beer. "Virgin," he asked.

"Not anymore," said Popper. He tipped the bottle up and took a great slug, his eyes cold and dead as tombstones. "Who's next," he asked.

"Guess that'd be me," said Arroyo as he headed for the room where the girl was being kept.

"Oh hey," said Popper as Arroyo entered. "I think I dislocated her shoulder."

Arroyo winked and said, "Gotcha," as he shut the door.

Hours passed and night descended on Gotham once again. A low-rider purred down a street, windows darkened against prying eyes. The car pulled up to a curb. One of the rear doors opened. From inside, Arroyo's voice, "Make the dumb bitch walk home, if she can." A naked and battered shape tumbled out of the vehicle, and curled up on the sidewalk. The car door slammed shut, and the custom Cadillac rolled forward, unhurried, but not unseen.

A shadow fell from the sky, zipping down an invisible thread until it landed with a whisper before the girl's prostrate form. Batman knelt down beside the shuddering blond. A low growl escaped his throat. His head snapped toward the retreating automobile that had disgorged this devastated creature back into the world. Telescopic night vision lenses in his cowl rendered the city an eerie green, but the license plate number leaped out at him. He watched the car turn a corner and rumble out of sight. The Dark Knight gathered up his long cape, and wrapped it around the slight girl. He picked her up, and she screamed. It was the long wailing shriek of one who has suffered too much and is overwhelmed. She beat on Batman's chest with one fist while he held her. Tears flowed down her bruised face, and incomprehensible sounds tumbled out of her mouth. He stood there and took the feeble blows, holding her tight, his mouth a grim line, until she had exhausted her final reserves of energy.

Batman activated the voice-remote to his car. "Pick up," he said. Less than a minute later, the Batmobile screeched to a halt in front of its owner. "Open passenger side." The door popped open, and Batman placed the girl in the vacant seat. He reached into the back for an emergency blanket to cover her. Without a word, he climbed into the driver's side and piloted the jet-powered auto away from the scene.

The Batmobile glided to a halt outside the medical clinic run by Dr. Leslie Thompkins. Batman retrieved the girl from the car and carried her into the building. He kicked in the swinging doors to the emergency room, startling the orderly on duty. "Get Dr. Thompkins. Now." The wide-eyed young man scrambled from his desk and ran down the hall. His dark uniform a stark contrast to the bright lights inside the facility, Batman gently laid the girl down on an exam table. His gloved hand stroked her hair as she lay shivering. In moments, Dr. Thompkins rushed into the room. She took little notice of the imposing vigilante and went straight to work on her newest patient. Members of the staff brought sedatives, bandages and other needed medical supplies. Batman moved off to a corner and let them work. After a few minutes. Dr. Thompkins came over to him, one hand running through her greying hair.

"It's only a cursory exam, but there doesn't seem to be any life-threatening injuries, although she has been severely traumatized. Do you know who she is?"

Batman shook his head. "I don't. And I don't know why this was done, or who did it, but I will have answers." His words turned hard, and Dr. Thompkins felt an air of menace, fueled by rage, begin to grow and fill the room.

"Go then," she said. "You can't do anymore here. I'll call when we know more."

Batman whirled away, strode over to the door, then stopped. Dr. Thompkins was watching him, as she had all these years, a figure continually shaped by tragedy. For a moment, all the anger and pain left him. His head bowed and his shoulders slumped forward. He turned his head slightly. "Another one I couldn't save, Leslie."

"You can't be everywhere." She almost added , Bruce, but that would have unwise with others around. Dr. Thompkins turned to catch something one of the nurses said, and when she cast her glance back to the door, Batman was gone.

A determined Caped Crusader returned to his car. Once inside, he keyed up the wireless connection to the powerful computers kept in the Batcave. Batman fed the license plate number from the low-rider into the network. Information from the DMV and the GCPD soon flowed onto the screen inside the vehicle. The Cadillac was registered to one Ruiz Arroyo. Batman sped off to the last known residence of a man he desperately wanted to find.

Neither Arroyo or the car were at the address, but the location was not deserted. Arroyo had left a guard, who was nothing more than a teenage punk with a bad attitude. Batman got a firm lead on Arroyo's whereabouts after he dangled the terrified thug out of a three story window. That had brought him to the building he had been watching for the past half-hour. The low-rider was parked in front. Batman had a sour feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. The place was a small hive of criminal activity. He had seen drug traffic, numerous illegal weapons, and large amounts of cash change hands. He thought again of the girl he had found earlier in the night, and swung into action.

Two men were guarding the front door. The pair appeared to be lounging, but both were armed and keeping a wary eye on the street. Hard men, to be sure, but they were not prepared for the dark thing that flew silently out of the night sky and landed with a thump on top of Arroyo's ride. Going on instinct, both reached for their guns, and cried out simultaneously in pain as a razored batarang sliced into each gun arm. The guards had no time to draw breath again before the creature was upon them. 

Batman wasted no time with the wounded underlings. Before they could recover their senses, he smashed a knee into the midsection of one, then slammed his head back against the brick wall of the building, knocking him unconscious. The other received a kick that drove the air from his lungs. A lightning quick left-right combination to the head turned out the guard's lights and left him sprawled on the pavement. The shadowy figure then simply walked in the front door.

Popper was sitting in his apartment talking with his three lieutenants when gunfire broke out inside the building. "What the fuck." he said.

Barducci went to the window and peered outside. "Nothing out there except two motherfuckers supposed to be guarding the door," he said. "Cept now they're face down on the sidewalk." A scream erupted from somewhere down below.

"How many we got inside," asked Popper.

"Bout a dozen, I think," replied Arroyo.

"Go see whatever is causing this, and fucking kill it," ordered Popper. The trio snatched up the weapons at hand and bustled out the door. They made it down to the level below when they were hit by a choking gas. Off to one side, they heard someone gagging, trying to draw breath. Johnny Drake was in the lead, and he tried to cover his mouth and nose while holding his gun in front of him. The gas was making his eyes tear up, and finally he went down to one knee to try and clear his head. When he looked up, for a split-second, he thought Darth Vader was standing there. A man, dressed in black, with a cape and wearing a mask over his face. 

Batman kicked the gun out of the hand of the man kneeling in front of him. He reached down, and hauled him up, then flung him into the wall. A swift sidekick lashed out and caught a Hispanic-looking man square in the gut. He bent over double and took in a great whooping lungful of gas. Batman spun toward the third figure in the hall, who got off a wild shot just before a thick-soled boot connected with the side of his knee. The man screamed, clutched his leg, and fell to the floor. The first man was trying to move away, feeling his way along the wall. He was nearly blind and coughing nonstop from the noxious gas. Batman walked over, measured his target, and sent a hard, straight punch into his temple. The man dropped like a stone. The Dark Knight bent over and cuffed Drake, then did the same to Arroyo and Barducci. After securing the men, he looked up toward the top floor and began the ascent upward.

The gas had settled into the lower floors, and the air was clear on the highest level. Batman discarded the gas mask he had been wearing. Only one door was closed , and with one hard kick it splintered off the frame. There was a lone man inside, and he was pointing a gun at the hero.

"You," said Popper with awe and anger mingling in his voice. "I didn't think you were real." There was a pause as the two stared at each other. "Why are you here? Shouldn't you be out chasing Killer Croc or something?"

"The girl," said Batman.

Confusion reigned on Popper's face for a moment. "The Stimple bitch? What is she to you?"

"An innocent. A victim" Batman felt a familiar rage start to burn inside of him. " One who deserved better than what she received at the hands of animals. You will answer for your actions."

"There are no innocents in this town," said Popper. A strange light was shining in his eyes. "Where were you," he shouted. "I prayed for someone to come and save me. No one did. No one did."

Batman sensed a drop in Popper's guard as his mind tumbled in on itself. He leapt across the room. Popper jerked himself back and triggered off two shots. One struck Batman's cape. The light armor woven into the fabric stopped the bullet from penetrating. The second shot went wild. Batman bore into Popper and the two crashed to the floor. Popper was big and strong, but he had little skill in hand to hand combat. Batman sent two punches into his ribs, while his other hand grasped the wrist that held the gun. Popper grunted with the blows and tried to roll Batman off of him. The Dark Knight used the moment to rip the gun from Popper's hand and toss it away. He bashed his cowled head into Popper's face, and heard the crunch of breaking cartilage. Batman applied for a choke hold to Popper's neck, getting in close as Popper tried to break free.

"Fuck you," gasped Popper as his face turned from red to purple. Batman simply applied more pressure until Popper was a limp form in his hands.

Afterwards, the police came to collect the prisoners and catalog all the evidence. Batman watched from high atop another building as the officers went about their work. He had caught the bad guys, and brought them to justice, but he was not satisfied. The girl intruded on his thoughts. She would never be the same. This experience would haunt her for a very long time, and there was nothing he could do to take her pain away. It gnawed at him. So often what he did provided few answers. It felt like he was trying to stem a never ending tide of pain and anguish with a band-aid.

Days later, Ashley Stimple awoke from another nightmare. She was still in the hospital, although the doctors promised she would be able to go home soon. They had caught the men who had brutalized her, but it was small comfort. She didn't sleep much anymore, because her dreams kept taking her back to that horrible time when her world had been torn apart. She had begun to wonder how she could possibly weave the tattered shreds of her life back together again after what had happened. Thoughts of suicide kept her company during the long waking hours. It would be better, she thought, just to end it all. Dying would stop the pain, and give her peace. Her mother kept a bottle of sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet at home. They offered a sweet release. Ashley's mind kept turning back to that bottle of pills........

****

DA END


End file.
